He dropped down upon Wrightwood's hotel and dashed along the corridor. He shouldered his way into the suite with a yell that brought servants and hotel detectives running. It also brought William Wrightwood from his bed, clad in a pair of pale blue silk pajamas.
Somehow it seemed appropriate to flee a holocaust in a pair of passionate pajamas, and for the first time in years Steve saw a bit of humor in his father's mien.
"Black Alarm," he said breathlessly. He shoved Wrightwood back into the bedroom and shut the door on the incoming help.
"Can't save 'em all," said Steve, working his false-fear act for all it was worth. "Slip out with me and we'll es—"
"Good boy, I knew you had what it took."
Wrightwood started to look for clothing.
"No time," snapped Steve. "Lunalight blew up ten minutes spacedrive out of Sanaron. The Guardians have the Black Alarm running, but the magma will get here first. That's raving death from an exploding sun for a billion people living on eight planets. Come on."
Wrightwood looked out of a window frantically. Everything seemed so solid, so safe. Yet—
He turned and nodded at Steve.